Boulders, Rust, and the Scenic Route Home
There are places in Tuscaloosa County that don’t look like much to an outsider, but to those of us who traveled them, they carry a whole world of memories. Dobbs Hill was one of those places.
Now, let’s get one thing straight right off the bat: despite what the name might suggest to folks from flatter parts of the world, Dobbs Hill was just that—a hill. It wasn’t a mountain. Nobody was strapping on oxygen tanks or planting flags at the summit. It sat quietly alongside Tyro Creek off the Old Jasper Road, minding its own business and waiting for unsuspecting drivers to negotiate its turns.
Back in those days, Old Jasper Road hadn’t met a batch of asphalt yet; it was a good, honest dirt road. Dobbs Hill didn’t just have the road running beside it—the road was carved right out of the side of the hill itself.
Driving up it was always a two-sided affair. On your left (or right, depending on which way you were heading), you had the raw earth bank, where massive, prehistoric-looking boulders jutted out like the exposed ribs of the earth. On the other side? Well, that was the drop-off.
As you pressed on up the incline, that drop-off got higher, and higher, and higher.
A View with a Side of Kitchen Appliances
If you were brave enough to take your eyes off the dirt road for a second and look out across the expanse, the view was something to behold. You could look out over the valley and see acres of pine timber—clear-cut years back and steadily working its way back up toward the sky in a blanket of green. Way down at the bottom, you could catch the sparkle of the creek winding its way through the trees.
Depending on the weather, the time of day, or how fast your tires were slipping on the dirt, that view was either a right nice sight or a downright terrifying one. But no matter how high your knuckles turned white on the steering wheel, Dobbs Hill was, above all else, simply the way home on any given day.
Of course, no rural Southern landscape would be complete without a touch of local “decor.”
If you cast your eyes directly down the bank into the ravine, the view took a slightly different artistic turn. Down in the hollow lay a scattered museum of mid-century household convenience:
- Rusted-out Frigidaires resting gracefully on their sides
- Old wringer washers that had seen their last load of overalls
- Mystery metal frames and forgotten household junk
It wasn’t exactly the kind of natural splendor you’d see on a state tourism brochure, but some folks just can’t help themselves when they find a good, deep drop-off next to a quiet road. It was an eyesore, sure, but it was our eyesore.
Progress Comes Knocking
A couple of years back, the county decided to step in and fix what wasn’t broken—at least, not in the eyes of those of us who loved the old curve. In their infinite engineering wisdom, they rerouted the road to go straight over the hill instead of winding around it like it used to.
Now, if you ask the county highway department, I’m sure they’d give you a five-minute lecture on sightlines, grade percentages, and road safety. I can understand why they did it. But understanding a thing doesn’t mean you have to like it.
To my mind, it was just another bad idea that slowly kills off our traditional ways. Turning a road that took patience and personality into a straight shot over a hill takes a little bit of the soul out of the trip. You used to have to drive Dobbs Hill; now you just drive over it.
The funny thing is, the old road hasn’t completely vanished into thin air. If you’ve got a mind to put your boots on the ground and hike it, the old dirt path is still sitting right there carved into the hillside, slowly being reclaimed by weeds and pine needles.
If you decide to go wandering down it, mind you, somebody might pull up and ask what in the world you’re doing poking around in the brush. But if you tell ’em you’re just looking for an old view—and maybe an old refrigerator—they might just understand. The road still exists, and as long as we remember the trip, so does the ride.